


Everything Has a Start

by snarkymonkey



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, PWP, bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-25 00:53:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3790519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkymonkey/pseuds/snarkymonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They'd met once or twice before but nothing of consequence.  However, well into maturity, Haldir realizes there is something <em>intoxicating</em> about a certain elf of Greenwood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything Has a Start

     _Take Legolas where he wishes to go.  He has not been to Lórien for some time._

     It should have been an easy task.  Escort a visiting royal through the bounty of Lórien.  Instead, Haldir had to struggle to remind himself of his duties.  He had met the Prince of Mirkwood a few times before; the first when he had been nearly two centuries old.  Legolas had reached full maturity yet had appeared as energetic as any young elfling.  He recalled a bubbly young thing, long blond hair flying as he tagged after his stern father like a feather.

     He had visited two or three times since, though Haldir rarely had a chance to meet with him.  Well on his way to the role of Marchwarden, his duties often kept him from Lothlórien.  He _thought_ he had seen him at a distance but even then, that image of a smiling, laughing elf still sat with him.  Nothing at all like the tall, quiet, _beautiful_ elf who strode beside him. 

     But now?  He wasn’t all that certain what he had expected.  That same excited elfling?  Or someone more like the taciturn Thranduil?  Legolas was certainly quiet like his father but some mischief appeared to dance behind the startling eyes.  Or so he hoped.  The elf prince had been more animated in greeting Celeborn and Galadriel but he’d sobered quickly.  Now, he followed Haldir at a sedate pace, hands folded at his back.

     _Valar, curse me,_ he thought, pointing out what he _thought_ Legolas might wish to know about.  Regardless of what information he shared, Legolas merely pursed his lips and added a squint or nod.  He said very little, his blue eyes tracking over every leaf and branch they passed. 

     Which only worsened Haldir’s nerves.  His insides twisted and burned in Legolas’ presence.  _Never_ in his life had another royal unnerved him.  He had learned at his Ada’s knee how to communicate with them.  And while he knew himself to be somewhat flat in his delivery, he knew also he’d never once insulted a visiting noble.  Nor any of Celeborn’s house.

     Yet . . . the Mirkwood Prince undid him.  He felt clumsy and foolish, too loud even.  He thanked the Valar he’d not worn his quiver else he might have started playing with the damnable arrows.  Anything to distract himself from the beauty of the elf he escorted.  He remembered Thranduil and his icy perfection.  Legolas was warmer but no less enticing. 

     Was it merely his appearance that had unsettled Haldir?  Legolas certainly embodied his Sindarin heritage, much like Celeborn himself.  Sharp, almost feral features softened by pale skin and brilliant eyes.  Taller than Haldir and lither; nothing like his own shorter, stockier build.  Which, before now, had never bothered Haldir.  He knew he wasn’t as willowy as most; Orophin stood taller than he and Rumil simply eked by with another inch.  Yet, he’d never been so acutely aware of his own differences until meeting the prince a second time.

     Maybe it was little more than his own naiveté regarding the more intimate behaviors between elves.  What was considered appropriate between those of a similar age.  He was just shy over eleven centuries old and one would think him well-versed in how to address others.  What to expect.  But the nine-hundred year-old elf who shadowed him confused him more than he cared to admit.  His mind shifted from being giddy to nearly frozen in intimidation.

     When just past maturity, he had asked his Ada once such things among the elves.  Granted, most of his questions centered on mates and how or when they were chosen.  Celeborn had been indulgent and mentioned that it was little more than a strike from a thundercloud.  It could be immediately past majority, or thousands of years on.  No one knew.  All anyone knew, was how their soul would react.

     And deep in his heart, Haldir feared _that_ had taken hold of him.  He, who wasn’t even a Marchwarden as yet.  He, who stood out in comparison to the other elves of Celeborn’s house; even his brothers appeared more like their foster father.  _He_ dared to think the Prince of Mirkwood a suitable mate?

     “You have gone silent,” Legolas pointed out.

     Haldir choked out a noise, his face going flush.  “Oh,” he murmured.  He stopped near a fallen tree, turning to _not quite_ face Legolas.  Even then, he could see the sly smirk on the prince’s face.  “I fear I am boring you, Your Highness.”

     Legolas’ humor faded some.  “Ah.  No, you’re not.  Lórien is the same yet different from Greenwood.”  He scowled.  “Mirkwood.”  He sighed, reaching out to stroke the bark of the thick tree to his left.  “Father seems to have no desire to bring it back to health.  He only wants to turn his back on it.” 

      A bit of his nervousness faded under the innocuous discussion.  “Have they discovered way to stop it?”  He knew little of the corruption in Mirkwood; only that it extended from Mordor.  A festering poison that dug in and spread.  Celeborn had warned him and the other trackers to keep an eye out for any of the same in Lórien, though their Lady’s powers would likely keep anything dark at bay.

     “No,” Legolas stated.  He dropped his hand.  “Father only pulls us deeper in.”  He focused on Haldir then and reached out, his thumb pressing along the braid at his temple.  “What is this?” he asked, blue eyes seizing Haldir’s.

     His heart tripled its beat and it took a moment for Haldir to answer.  “It . . . a tradition in Lórien,” he managed.  “The number and the complexity indicate status or rank.”  He dropped his gaze, resisting the urge to stroke his hair where Legolas had touched him.  “Mine is nothing more than that of a tracker.”

     Legolas frowned.  “With the way Celeborn speaks of you, I thought you held a higher status.”

     He shrugged.  “Er, somewhat.  But . . . I prefer this one,” he answered, unwilling to explain his own insecurities therein.

     “But you _know_ the braids of the nobility?” he asked, the slyness back in his voice. 

     “Some,” Haldir admitted.  What was it about this prince that completely threw him?  He was confident in most things.  An excellent tracker.  Proficient with the bow.  Celeborn had no doubt he would be titled Marchwarden by the season’s end, and yet, he forgot all that when the blue-eyed prince spoke to him.

     “Show me,” Legolas demanded.  He spun, dropping to sit on the upturned log.  “I would like a princely braid.”

     Haldir’s first instinct was to refuse.  Braids such as these were an intimate gift among family and loved ones.  Surely Legolas knew that.  “It might be . . . unseemly for me to give that to you,” he warned, wincing inwardly at his choice of words.

     Legolas lifted an eyebrow.  “If you like, I won’t mention that _you_ did it; only that you showed me.”  He shrugged.  “I won’t speak of it.”  He smirked then.  “I highly doubt anyone would question my wearing one, Haldir.”

     Haldir frowned.  “I suppose,” he hedged.  He gave in quickly when Legolas grinned.  “Fine.  Just . . . fine,” he muttered.  He stepped up to Legolas, carding the blond hair to choose an appropriate amount for the braid.  And trembling.  Legolas’ hair felt as soft as the finest fibers under his fingers.  He bit the inside of his cheek, swallowing his whimper.  _Oh, Valar; I’ve made a mistake,_ he thought, separating the strands.

     “What would a braid of my rank look like?” Legolas asked, clearly unaware of Haldir’s struggle.

     Haldir jumped, tugging on Legolas’ head as he did.  “Forgive me, Prince Legolas,” he winced.  He shivered again when Legolas patted his hip. 

     “Were I felled by a simple tug like that, I’d not deserve my position in my father’s guard,” he teased.  It had to be Haldir’s imagination that the prince’s fingers lingered on his hip before dropping away.  “And you may address me as Legolas, if you like.”

     Face warming, Haldir licked his lips.  “One noble braid is actually two.”  Focusing on his work, he found himself able to ignore the way his body wanted to lean into the elf beside him.  “At the temple and then braided down to the tips where both are braided again at the back, usually with gems.”  He cleared his throat.  “It’s typically for special events since it tends to tangle.”

     In reality, Haldir had long practice with royal and mundane braids.  His fingers _should_ move quickly and easily, placing the braid with little effort.  But, with Legolas so near, and his hair so soft, he fumbled constantly, having to undo much of the plait over and over to keep the tension constant. 

     “Tell me, Haldir; have you an intended?”

     He froze, blinking.  “Intended?”

     Legolas chuckled, the sound nearly buckling Haldir’s knees.  “Surely Celeborn wishes you to marry within the higher circles of Lothlórien.” 

     Fingers slowing on the shining braid, he shook his head.  “O-oh.  Er, Lord Celeborn has never asked that of my brothers and I.  He seems content that we’re merely happy.”  Not thinking, he licked his thumb and smoothed it against part of the braid he’d already completed, an unconscious a habit he’d developed when doing Rumil’s braids.  His face flamed hot but he _hoped_ Legolas hadn’t noticed.

     “I am sure that disappoints many.”

     He slowed, blinking.  Had that . . . had there been a _purr_ in Legolas’ voice?  He bit his lip.  No, simply his own mind praying for such.  Legolas was Prince of Mirkwood.  The only heir to Thranduil.  That he even spoke to Haldir was a surprise.  He turned his attention back to the braid, pointedly ignoring the way his groin stirred at the fantasy of it all.

     He swallowed and shrugged.  “I doubt that, my lord.  I am only a tracker after all.”

     “Soon to be Marchwarden to hear Celeborn speak.” 

     He chuckled.  “Well, I suppose.  Not for another season, though.  Maybe.”

     “I would wager that you could have Celeborn install you as one now.”

     “Never!”  He froze when Legolas shifted, tilting his head to peer at him.  “I . . . I only mean, I would never wish for that.  If I’m to be a Marchwarden, it’s by _my_ skill, not another's position.”  Strangely, he felt as though he’d passed some test in the way Legolas resumed his seat.

     Again with a pat to his hip, this time the hand staying.  “Admirable,” Legolas mused.  “Not many would do that, I would think.”

     He swallowed as Legolas’ hand drifted down, firm and hot against his thigh before falling away finally.  His fingers trembled as he tried to return to his braiding.  Like before, though, he fumbled the silky strands of hair, the plait now awkward and loose. 

     “Everything all right, Haldir?” Legolas asked, his voice low and sly.

     “Of . . . of course.  It’s been a while since I’ve handled this braid, though.”  He tried to laugh but it came out strangled and weak.  He cleared his throat, forcing his fingers to move again.  “You’ll have to forgive me.”

     He halted again when Legolas’ hand reached up, covering his atop the braid.  Haldir’s eyes widened at the press of the prince’s fingers against his.  His heart thudded hard in his throat and he shifted, leaning into Legolas more. 

     As though he’d won some grand prize, Legolas’ eyes lit up, the blue deep and dark as he shifted, pulling Legolas to stand before him.  Keeping his gaze even with Haldir’s, he said nothing as he drew Haldir’s hand down, pressing his mouth to the bared wrist.  When teeth stung Haldir’s skin, he whimpered, fingers clenching.

     Legolas drew his other arm around Haldir’s waist, holding him still as he licked and nipped Haldir’s wrist.  “Has _anyone_ touched you this way?” he growled, words vibrating against tender skin.

     Unable to speak, Haldir shook his head.

     “Would you like me to stop?”

     A harsher shake.  So foolish of him but . . . it would be _more_ foolish to stop.  Even if he wanted to, he doubted his body would listen.  All he knew was the _want_ that surged in him.  Let Legolas do as he wished; he didn’t care.  He only wanted the touch and possession that came with it.

     Again the flare of pleasure in the bright eyes.  He pulled his other arm away, transferring his hand to Haldir’s front and pressing the heat of his palm to his groin.  Haldir whined at the pleasant pressure, face flush with embarrassment as he dropped his free hand to Legolas’ shoulder.  He gasped, rolling his hips into that unexpected touch.

     The prince palmed him, lips curling against Haldir’s wrist.  “Is this all it will take?” he purred, dragging his thumb along the line of Haldir’s thickening prick.  “A stroke or two and the warden will spill?”

     Haldir bit his lip, digging his fingers into Legolas’ shoulder.  “Y-you have me . . . at a disadvantage,” he protested.  It happened so fast, he barely caught the motion.  One moment, Legolas taunted him and the next, the prince had stood and pulled him into a harsh kiss, growling against his mouth.

     Stunned, Haldir didn’t react at first but when Legolas’ tongue swept his lips, he caved, whimpering as he clutched at the prince, shutting his eyes for fear it would all vanish.  He looped his arms around Legolas’ neck, mewling when a thick thigh slid between his legs, pressing against his swollen groin.

     He yelped when Legolas turned him, pulling him flush with his back.  “To your knees, Warden,” he hissed. 

     Haldir arched into the prince’s grip, rolling his arse against Legolas’ heated length.  He moaned when Legolas gripped his throat, fingers loose and hot against his skin.  “Anything,” he rasped, startled by his own willingness.  His body quaked at the touch of him.  He only wanted more. 

     Legolas pushed him toward the ground, fumbling his trousers down as he did.  The cool spring air curled past his bared flesh and he gasped, hitting the ground with his palms, shivering.  Mud and water soaked into his trousers but it did little to fight the fever burning in him.  He squirmed, rocking in Legolas’ hands.  “I . . . I hope you came . . . prepared.”

     The cold, slick fingers against his arsehole were answer enough.  The chill on his flesh left him whimpering, as did the hot burn in his ears.

     “I am a guard of Mirkwood, dear Haldir,” Legolas teased.  He thrust his fingers fast and hard.  “You think me a novice?”  He chuckled, his body covering Haldir’s in that quiet clearing.  He nipped Haldir’s ear, lips curling at the mewl.  “Mmm, that is a sound you should make more often.” 

     Haldir’s fingers clenched in the mud as he gasped, eyes shut and head thrown back.  “Th-this is common then?  You . . . dally with a-all your guardsmen?”  He yelped when Legolas pulled him back on his knees, mud flying from his fingers.  Legolas’ chest _burned_ through his tunic, a furnace that brought sweat beading his forehead.

     The prince fasted his mouth to Haldir’s neck and growled, “None are worth my effort.”  One arm a heavy band at Haldir’s throat, Legolas continued his insistent plunge, breath flashing hard against Haldir’s dampened neck.  In one heartbeat, he bit down as he pressed his fingers to something exquisite in Haldir.

     He cried out, scrabbling for Legolas’ arm, bucking hard at the coruscation of pleasure along his nerves.  Legolas repeated the motion, biting harder as he did.  Haldir sobbed, digging his nails into the prince’s arm, begging breathlessly.

     Dizzy now, he was on his hands again, the fingers gone from his arse.  Something thicker and hotter in their place.  Eyes wide and staring, he gulped air as Legolas pushed into him, growling and groaning with each slick thrust.

     Haldir had never felt anything like it.  He’d fumbled a time or two with another elf; male or female, it mattered little.  But sex had never entered the equation.  Hands on his prick were one thing.  This, however, something entirely new.  The pain burned bright like a fire in his skin, and he whimpered, biting his lip against the stretch.

     When he thought it too much to take, Legolas’ hand found his flagging prick, stroking it to hardness once again.  He focused instead on that lovely slickness and found the burn of penetration began to fade, replaced by something altogether different and enticing.

     Legolas chuckled, squeezing his prick as he rocked against Haldir.  “Mm.  Perfect; as I’d suspected.”

     Haldir could come up with nothing in reply.  Instead, he shifted back, tying to take more.  As the pain had faded, pleasure replaced it, filling his senses.  He no longer noticed the damp or the chill air.  Could barely feel the water that soaked into his trousers.  All he could feel was that burning thickness driving ever deeper.

     “ _Please!_ ” he gasped, not knowing what he begged for.

     The prince, however, knew quite well and gripped Haldir’s hips, thrusting hard and fast.  He grunted as he bowed over Haldir, his hips slapping against Haldir’s arse. 

     Haldir dug his fingers into the mud, sobbing at the delicious torment of it all.  How?  How could this feel so _perfect_?  He spread his knees as wide as he could, trapped as they were in his trousers.  Anything, _anything_ to increase that lovely pain that Legolas tormented him with.  He cried out when Legolas tangled a hand in his hair, yanking hard.

     _Oh, Valar,_ he moaned, mouth slack as he trembled.  His stomach quivered, his cock slapping wet against his abdomen.  He wanted it to last forever yet it ached too sweetly to continue.  He writhed in Legolas’ grip, whimpering. 

     Like before, Legolas hauled him up to his knees, plunging harder into Haldir’s body until he seized, something warm and thick spilling inside him.  He quivered at the foreign feel, Legolas’ prick spasming pleasantly.  Too soon, Legolas had slipped from him, his arse empty and pulsing.

     He stared sightless at the ground, gasping for air.  His cock still ached, still thick with desire.  Numb, on his knees, he turned, catching sight of Legolas as the prince did up his trousers.  Before he could question him, Legolas bent down, catching his mouth in a filthy kiss, biting his lip as he pulled away.

     He straightened and ran a hand through his hair, smirking as he touched the half-finished braid.  Legolas’ eyes dropped to Haldir’s still-swollen prick and he licked his lips.  “A lovely tour, Warden,” he purred, turning away sharply and heading for Lórien proper.

     Haldir watched him go, too stunned to speak.  When he realized Legolas would not be returning, he shakily took himself in hand, stroking hard, his face hot as he came.  He gasped and shuddered, wondering what exactly had happened.  He knelt in the midst of Lórien, his trousers half-done, knees wet with mud.  He throbbed pleasantly though, still recalling the force of Legolas’ body against his own.  Like a dream.  Like some half-remembered, sinful dream.

     He stood, fumbling for his trouser ties and muttered, “I hope Ada doesn’t ask me why we separated.”  He blushed again, covering his face with one hand.  “Bloody hell,” he breathed.  If his brothers caught wind of it, he’d never live it down.  Orophin would only be too delighted to tease him.

     Thank the Valar Mirkwood remained so far from Lórien.  He could tuck this misadventure into the far corners of his mind.

     Though, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t return to the memory now and again.  Nights could get lonely, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> ARGH. Anyway, very glad this is done. I need a nap.
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://dek-says-so.tumblr.com).


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